


Royai Week 2020 - Prompt Two: Little Pistol

by royza_hawkstang



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/M, royaiweek20
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:35:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24633187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/royza_hawkstang/pseuds/royza_hawkstang
Relationships: RoyAi
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	Royai Week 2020 - Prompt Two: Little Pistol

## Little Pistol

She walked home through the late afternoon sun, her head feeling fuzzy from the weight of her own thoughts, snippets of that day’s ‘orientation’ echoing in her mind. Riza normally walked with her head up, her eyes forward… but not today. Today, her eyes were on the sidewalk, her brow furrowed.

“Your assignment to the Fuhrer-President’s office will be permanent,” one memory whispered.

“You will accompany the Fuhrer-President on any outing he specifies,” another said.

“You will not carry any unauthorized weapon in the Fuhrer-President’s office or in his presence.”

“Any disrespect toward the office of the Fuhrer-President or his person may be treated as a court-martial offence.”

“Any contact with Colonel Mustang deemed to be of a suspicious nature may be investigated and/or punished as a form of treason.”

“Your dog may accompany you to the office, provided he is not disruptive.”

That last one had thrown her briefly for a loop. Something they added in to placate her, maybe, to soften her a little in regards to the way they had totally overthrown her life. The more Riza thought about it, however, the more she began to think that her being allowed to bring Hayate to the office was merely to ensure she wouldn’t leave the garrison to walk him during the day. A trip off-site for a dog walk could easily be turned into ‘contact of a suspicious nature.’

She missed Falman and his analytical mind to help her wade through all of this. She missed Breda and his knack for strategy to help her figure out her next move. She missed Havoc’s easy laugh and complaining about his latest girlfriend breaking up with him. She missed Fuery and his sheer earnestness in doing the best he could. She missed the Elrics and hearing about whatever their latest set of shenanigans was.

And, she thought as she unlocked her apartment door, she missed Roy.

Hayate stretched, his eyes squeezed closed, before standing straight to welcome her home with a happy yap. Riza smiled, reaching down to ruffle his ears… but her heart wasn’t in the gesture. Picking up on her mood, the little dog licked at her fingers, before shoving the top of his head into her palm.

Her smile grew a little stronger. “You think paying attention to you will make me feel better?” she commented, reaching down to scoop him into her arms. Hayate instantly broke into a doggie grin, settling both paws on her shoulder and starting in on licking her cheek. “Well, I suppose you’re not wrong. You’re the only one of my boys that they left me.”

Hefting him so that he rode more comfortably in her arms, she started across the room toward the lockbox on top of her dresser to safely stow her weapons… and paused as an idea occurred to her. Setting Hayate on the bed, she took her keys from her pocket and opened the box, looking in at the only gun inside. It was too small to be of any real use in a firefight, thus it almost never left the lockbox except for maintenance and cleaning. A little two-shot pistol, intended for use up close and with no other option.

Well, she was currently extremely low on options, and there weren’t many as close to Bradley as she was about to be.

Lifting the little gun from the box, she weighed it in one hand, her eyes on the dully shining metal, the words from the orientation ringing through her mind again. ‘You will not carry any unauthorized weapon in the Fuhrer-President’s office or in his presence.’

Were she found to have this gun on her at any point while she was working, it would almost certainly be seen as a plan to assassinate the Fuhrer-President. Roy wouldn’t be able to save her, Grumman wouldn’t be able to save her, no other command-level officer would care enough to even _try_ to save her… she would be completely and utterly on her own.

For the sake of feeling at least marginally safe, that was a risk she was willing to take.

* * *

She awoke the morning after her confrontation with Pride with a creeping feeling covering her back, climbing up the back of her neck, raising the little hairs there. She brushed her teeth, brushed her hair, and then turned toward the shower… and hesitated.

Theoretically, he could be watching. He could have watched every stroke of the hairbrush, watched her spit toothpaste foam into the sink, watched her stretch beneath the blankets on her bed, watched her fumble for her alarm clock…. Would such a creature, keeping her under surveillance, extend that surveillance to watching her in the shower? She supposed it wasn’t out of the realm of the possible; they were already an embodiment of a cardinal sin, so why not sin a little more? Then again, perhaps leaving her that sort of privacy was the single shred of decency they possessed.

Either way, she couldn’t go the next however long without bathing; that simply wasn’t an option. The secrets on her back were useless without the parts that had been burned away, and maybe if they could figure out just what that tattoo was, it would make them take her a little more seriously as a threat. Something more than ‘Mustang’s lap dog.’

Firming her jaw, trying not to think about potential supernatural eyes on her, Riza started the hot water running, slipped out of her pajamas, left them neatly folded by the door, and stepped into the steam and spray.

The shower was short, brisk, and businesslike. Where before, she might have luxuriated a little more in the warmth on her skin, or allowed her thoughts to wander, this time, she could not relax. Rinsing the last of the conditioner from her hair, she cut the flow short, wringing out the blonde strands before reaching for a towel.

Hayate trailed after her as she crossed toward her closet, licking up drops of water that fell as she moved. Smiling at his antics, she took out the hanger holding her uniform and laid it on the foot of the bed, then turned to the top of her dresser to retrieve her belt and holsters.

She hesitated again. She locked every gun she carried in the lockbox when she came home; it was the first rule of gun safety. That box held her two handguns that rode either at the small of her back or underneath her jacket, her revolver (for special ‘leave no evidence’ cases), and the tiny hold-out pistol.

She had taken to carrying the two handguns at the small of her back and the hold-out under her jacket since working for Bradley. The question now was, had Pride seen her wear it? Likely not, since she hadn’t been physically searched or arrested for conspiracy to assassinate the Fuhrer-President.

Deep in the back of her mind, she recognized these thoughts for the paranoia they were. She also knew that even with the knowledge that Pride could look in on her at any time, she couldn’t stop living her life.

But if her luck happened to run just bad enough that he checked on her while she was fitting a contraband gun into a shoulder holster….

Making her decision, she dressed quickly, leaving her jacket in the bed and shrugging easily into her shoulder holster. Then, picking up the lockbox, she turned and deliberately walked into her small closet and shut the door. She felt immensely foolish, but also a strange sense of cleverness.

When she emerged a few moments later, and returned the lockbox to the top of her dresser, her two regular-issue handguns were nestled in their holsters at the small of her back, and the hold-out pistol was snug against the left side of her ribs. And if he were present, all Pride would have seen was her acting strangely and nothing more.

* * *

She evaluated everything in the apartment like it might be the last time she saw it. For all she knew, it might be. Riza chose her clothes carefully – she wanted dark, to get her through the night ahead, but nondescript for when events inevitably spilled over into daylight. She needed to be able to disappear both in shadow and on the street.

Her boots would serve well enough, meant for combat as they were. Dark blue pants, her usual black shirt, the light grey jacket with snap-closed pockets on the sleeves that were perfect for holding extra ammunition clips.

Riza had long since given up her paranoia of whether Pride was ever about to watch her dress or undress. Sure, he looked like a little kid, and a little kid might have that kind of curiosity, but the monster behind the mask was who-knew how old, and presumably uninterested. Lust might have been, but Pride was something else entirely.

She pulled the soft black cotton of the shirt over her head, freed her hair from the high collar, then tucked it into the pants and cinched the belt tight. The holsters snugged tight against the small of her back, strangely light without their usual cargo.

This felt good. This calm before the storm, this gearing up for battle before hitting the streets. This preparing to take action after months of forced inaction.

The memory of the night Pride had confronted her came to mind, standing in the dark colonnade next to the gardens, anger and fear and hatred warring in her chest for dominance. She could admit that now; she _hated_ that smug little thing, the thing that wore a human body like a suit. But she hated him for what he had done, not for whatever he was.

Every so often, when this memory popped up, she got the briefest, faintest taste of the vengeance Scar wanted for his people. She wanted vengeance for _her_ people, against these beings that had driven them apart, had manipulated them all, had decided their lives were completely insignificant. She wanted to take Roy’s gloves and burn that beautiful house down around Pride and Bradley’s ears, she wanted to destroy everything they had worked for up until this day… she wanted the tiny hold-out pistol in her lockbox pressed dead-centre on Bradley’s chest with her finger on the trigger.

Standing still, she breathed deeply, her eyes closing as she forced the memory, the anger, and the desire for revenge away. She was better than they were, she reminded herself. She would fight for her people, but she would not avenge them. She would stand up to the manipulators and not allow herself to be moved about by them like a twisted kind of chess piece. She would bring justice, not vengeance.

And she would bring that little pistol.

Riza had played nice for too long. She had bided her time, gathering information, coding it, passing it to Roy, or Grumman, or the rest of the men. She had learned Fuery had been sent to the southern front and her heart had nearly broken for that young man. He had been the most innocent of all of them, and now he had seen the same sort of warfare she and Roy had.

Falman had told her that Edward and Alphonse had disappeared from the north, and that the last anyone had seen of Edward, he had fallen down an abandoned mineshaft with two of Kimblee’s henchmen. Henchmen that had also disappeared. She refused to believe the boy was dead; he was simply too stubborn for that. Reading between the lines of the information made her suspect that Edward had talked the henchmen – chimeras, by Falman’s suspicions – over to his side and the three had gone into hiding until the Promised Day.

Breda had been lying low out west, but passing strategy ideas to her for her to pass on to Roy. She didn’t understand the code they were using, but she didn’t need to. The information was compartmentalized between the two of them, therefore it was safer.

She reached for the shoulder holster, but then decided against it. It didn’t restrict her movement all that much, but the jacket she had chosen didn’t close and with the shoulder holster’s strap visible across her chest, it would advertise there was a hidden weapon for an enemy to watch for. Instead, picking up the tiny hold-out pistol, she tucked it firmly down inside her right boot, on the outside of her leg where it would stay safe and snug until – and unless – she needed it.

She had been sneaking around, quietly communicating with her old team for six months, under the collective nose of her enemy. Bradley had probably thought that by bringing one of the more significant players so close to him, that he would remove a vital link of communication.

Riza was used to being underestimated. It was one of her greatest advantages. And now today, Bradley’s misconceptions about her abilities and methods of gathering and dispersing information were going to come back to haunt him. Separating her team hadn’t weakened them in the slightest, it had only made them stronger.

And they were about to collectively go for the throat of this nation built on lies and blood.

* * *

Exhausted and trying to stay awake, she sat in the shade of a hastily-erected medical treatment tent, doing her level best to ignore the IV needle in her arm. Blood dripped slowly from its glass container, feeding gently into her system to replace what she’d lost. Bandaging wrapped around her throat shifted as she swallowed, her mouth dry. Everything hurt… but in the good way that occurs after a hard job well done.

She had given up the makeshift table they had laid her on for the first half of the transfusion, in favour of others who were more seriously wounded. Rebecca had gone to check on the others, leaving Riza to her own thoughts. In another tent off to her right, through an open side, she could see Roy deep in conversation with Marcoh, and somewhere far behind her she could occasionally catch snatches of Armstrong’s rumbling bass voice.

It was over. Bradley was dead. Pride was gone. Mrs. Bradley was safe off-site, still under precautionary guard from Maria Ross, Breda, and Fuery. She had seen Falman darting every which way inside the medical tent, helping wherever he could. And, by whatever miracle, both she and Roy were alive and relatively intact.

Leaning her head against the IV pole, she allowed her eyes to close, but kept her fingers drumming on the grass to keep herself awake. It was probably safer to fall asleep now, but she didn’t want to risk any–

Something nudged her knee. “No sleeping for you yet, Lieutenant. Mustang will kill me if I let something happen to you while he’s busy.”

She opened her eyes to find Major-General Armstrong standing over her, just pulling back her right foot from the nudge. The other woman looked as rough as Riza felt, her arm in a sling, and several cuts and abrasions visible on her face. She smirked. “He’d have to wait until he can see again, and even then, who knows if he would be successful. I mostly don’t want to deal with the hassle.”

“Duly noted, sir.” Carefully lifting her right arm so that she wouldn’t dislodge the IV, Riza gave an approximation of a salute. “I’m glad to see you came through all right.”

“More or less.” Olivier settled to a seat on the grass, setting her sword to one side, blue eyes roaming her surroundings. Checking on things, always checking. “Certainly better than some of the rest of my men.”

Riza nodded solemnly. “I heard about Captain Buccaneer while they were treating me,” she said quietly. “And about your tanks.”

“Bradley was always a cunning bastard,” was the cool response. “He got the drop on us, and exposed a fatal weakness in the tank design. You can be sure we’ll be finding a way to remedy that. As for Buccaneer….” She looked up, to where white clouds glided smoothly across the sky. “There wasn’t any other way he would have wanted to go.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, each with their own thoughts, before Olivier spoke again. “So what’s next for you? Back to cleaning up Mustang’s messes?”

She smiled, shifting to a more comfortable position. “There isn’t any place I’ve wanted to be more in the last little while. Everything was so… _regulated_ in the President’s office. I had set office hours, never stayed late once, never had to explain how to fill out this form or that one….”

“It was boring?”

“Completely.” She shrugged fatalistically. “Say what you will about the Colonel and his operating methods, but working for him is always interesting.”

“It suits you,” Olivier said simply. “I had ideas once upon a time of trying to win you over to Briggs; your work ethic and your aim would be vital to us. But I learned a long time ago that you’re more vital to keeping that idiot alive, and the team you’ve built needs you too.”

For a moment, Riza was speechless. Olivier Armstrong did not speak this candidly very often, and to see it now was both strange and validating. “I – Thank you, sir. I appreciate the sentiment.”

“You’re welcome.” Another smirk. “Don’t tell Miles or my brother; I’ll never live it down.”

Silence descended again, and this time, neither of them made a move to break it. Riza sat watching the half-destroyed face of Central Headquarters, watching volunteer squads moving through in search of survivors or salvage. The world had, in the space of one day, caught on fire, blown apart, and then resettled into its previous calm. But where the calm before had been tainted with darkness from Father and the Homonculi, now there was a chance for actual peace.

She looked to the side again, to where Roy and Marcoh were still talking, and smiled. He was actually going to get his shot at starting a better world. He was going to do it. And she was going to get to watch and help him. It was going to be a staggeringly monumental task… but if they could face it together….

She was still watching when his shoulders tensed abruptly, and he paused in the middle of whatever he had been saying. His expression, even with his eyes closed, turned to one of concentration… and then his head lifted, eyes opening. Even at this distance, she could just make out the greyed-out irises and pupils that somehow still managed to stare her directly in the eye.

A moment later, he smiled, and that sight warmed her from the centre of her chest outward. The little flame of hope she had thought had been extinguished rekindled itself.

And just like that, the tiny hold-out pistol she had hidden on her person for six months didn’t seem necessary anymore.


End file.
